


They Will Tell a Thousand Stories of You

by littlethiefs



Category: The Daevabad Trilogy - S. A. Chakraborty
Genre: dara's been doing his thing for a long time now, he's a story people tell in crowded cities, just a short little fic about it, post-eog, set 500 years after the end of empire of gold
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:28:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26691430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlethiefs/pseuds/littlethiefs
Summary: 500 years have passed since Darayavahoush e-Afshin left Daevabad. And his city remembers him.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 20





	They Will Tell a Thousand Stories of You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [astarisms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astarisms/gifts).



> Gifting this to astarisms because she came up with the line that inspired the whole fic, so thanks legend

Ervin scuttled amidst the crowd of daevas, twisting and turning through narrow gaps between the oppressive press of bodies, his behavior earning him disapproving looks. He burst through the other side and gave a quiet whoop of glee, for the old traveler with the blue turban was seated on a threadbare rug, smoking a pipe and in the middle of a story. Quietly, Ervin took a seat with the other children lined up before the storyteller, and he clutched the strap of his quiver of arrows as he began to listen.

“...A force of nature, with fire streaming in embers from his skin, golden blood raging through his veins and more power than any man could fathom. He was a Daeva with a single purpose: to serve his people until the last breath left his lips, and perhaps even after that. He was his people’s salvation and their doom. He was a marvel and he was terror incarnate, with that mark upon his brow and a silver bow strapped to his back, sent upon the earth to first destroy the world, then spend the rest of his days stitching it back together.” Ervin’s eyes widened. He knew of whom the old man spoke.

“They say the marids feared he would set their waters aflame, that the peris feared he would steal the air from their wings. That he commanded the ifrit, those devils from legend, before hunting them down and killing them all. How a man hunts lightning, I know not, but Darayavahoush did it. And then he looked for those souls the ifrit stole, slumbering in every nook and cranny of the world before finding them and bringing them home.”

Ervin craned his neck to look around the crowd, spotting those daevas with bright emerald eyes, some weaving through the bazaar, others huddled outside shops, and one or two standing in the crowd, listening with rapt attention to the old man’s tale. Farzi, the old woman with the sad green eyes and a kind face, met his gaze and offered him a smile. He would visit her soon. She liked to speak with him, and he liked to listen to what she had to say.

“That young boy with the hopeful eyes who was sent away and came back with the blood of Tukharistanis on his hands mixed with the blood of his people who would lose their lives paying for Qui-zi, and his own blood, for everything innocent within him died too when the gates of the city shut behind him. That general with the cold, dead gaze who won battle after battle in a war he would have won had his enemies not sold him to the ifrit out of crippling terror that he would win. And yet...” 

The old man’s voice was soft when he continued, taking contemplative puffs from his pipe. “That man who instilled so much fear in the hearts of his enemies, that man who gods trembled before… strange how the man most feared in the world was also the most scared. He had nothing to lose— no more family, no more companions, and yet, he had _everything_ to lose. His beliefs. His convictions. His purpose. Darayavahoush’s very soul would shatter under the burden of his task, and that frightened him so much that he could not look it in the eye, hoping that blindly feeling for the future, hands grasping while he kept his eyes shut, would see him through until the bloody end. He spent every waking moment of every day trying to save his people, yet kept failing, bloodying his hands for those who never deserved it, each second spent under servitude chipping away pieces of his soul… and finally destroying it when the reckoning came. Strange how the strongest man of our world was the one who most needed saving.” 

The old man blinked and Ervin saw a tear trickle down his weathered face, disappearing in his white beard. “And when all hope had faded, when he had lost the last pieces of himself, when everything he’d ever known was absolutely shattered, only then was Darayavahoush able to do what he had always wanted: he saved the city. And then he walked away. Five centuries ago, never to be seen by his own home, his own people ever again. But he continued on in his never ending task to save the tortured souls the ifrit stole, to atone and do penance for his sins.” The storyteller smiled. “They say he’s still out there in the world, riding the wind, sandstorms swirling in his path, his quiet laugh the rustle of the leaves and his unshed tears the rain that falls on his city’s streets.”

A hush fell over the gathered crowd, and Ervin was surprised to see the sheen of wetness in many people’s eyes. Sensing that the story was over, Ervin got to his feet, checking to make sure his bow and arrows were still strapped securely to his back. Then he set off, back through the throng of people, hoping against hope that his mother wouldn’t be too angry that he was returning from archery practice so late, but oh, he’d wanted to listen to the story so badly—

“Oof!” He slammed into someone, and his quiver dropped to the floor, a few arrows clattering onto the cobblestones. Hurriedly grabbing his practicing weapons, Ervin slung his quiver back on his shoulder before he noticed that the man he had run into had bent to retrieve one of his arrows from under a fruitseller’s cart. When he straightened, the hair on the back of Ervin’s neck seemed to stand on its end.

He had green eyes like many others in Daevabad did, but his were brighter than anyone else’s. A sharp face framed with curly hair, a few stray gray stands peeking from the curtain of pitch black, a tattoo Ervin couldn’t discern in the dark marking his temple. The man held Ervin’s arrow out to him, and he took it tentatively. 

“You seem to be in a hurry,” the man said. “Was the tale that dull?”

“My mother will be angry that I’m out so late,” he said sheepishly. The man smiled, a twinkle in those eyes of his.

“You best run then. I think angry mothers would scare even this Darayavahoush fellow.” Ervin grinned back before nodding and rushing away, his steps echoing through the lantern-lit streets.


End file.
